Death Note
by Atari-chan
Summary: House finds the Death Note. He uses it for the benefit of the population, but who really knows what justice is? Future HW slash. No knowledge of the Death Note manga necessary, all will be explained.
1. Chapter 1

_Summary: House finds the Death Note. He uses it for the benefit of the population, but who really knows what justice is? Future HW slash. No knowledge of the Death Note manga necessary, all will be explained._

**OoOoO**

**The human whose name is written in this note shall die.**

_Cool_, thought House. He turned the notepad over in his hands; A4 size, with a plain black cover, it looked perfectly normal, except for the words **Death Note** written on the front in a scrawled font.

He'd picked it up the previous night, seen it lying by the side of the road as he made his way home from work following their latest case. And, having been intrigued, he'd picked it up and taken it home. If nothing else, he could use it to freak out clinic patients when he was bored.

He opened it. Inside the front cover was a _How to use it_ section. How useful. Huh.

**This note will not take effect unless the writer has the person's face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected.**

That made sense. One person called John Smith provoked him and there could be some serious problems.

**If the cause of death is written within 40 seconds of writing the person's name, it will happen.**

**If the cause of death is not specified, the person will simply die of a heart attack.**

Now, that was interesting. Whoever had made this thing had really thought things through. He could choose if he so wished, or just trigger something that couldn't be traced back to him.

**After writing the causes of death, details of the death should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds.**

What was their thing with 40 seconds? And details, huh? Good thing he had such an active imagination.

There was more, but he left it for the time being. Instead, he frowned. It was impossible, of course, for the thing to work, but still. Just in case, he didn't want to name anyone he knew. That would just be tempting fate.

Suddenly he was struck by an idea. He glanced at the clock, telling himself that 6 minutes was a long time, and began to write. Even as he wrote the name, the face sprung uninvited into his mind. And as he wrote the next section, he tingled inside despite himself. If this worked, it would challenge his view of the world like nothing else. But it was alright, because he, and he alone, was in complete control.

He finished writing, let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Held out a hand to find out he was shaking. Reaching across to the coffee table, he grabbed the remote and switched the TV on. If it worked, he would fucking know about it. The whole world would know about it, but only he would know why.

The seconds ticked by, House's eyes still fixed on the news report. He had to allow some time, he knew, for the travelling he'd dictated.

An hour passed, though, and still nothing. It could take that long, he supposed, depending on the distance. But he was tired, and his bed was calling him. Unable to deny the disappointment that swept through him as such an exciting prospect was cruelly denied, he got up and made his way into his bedroom. It was probably a good thing, he thought. Power over life and death twisted the sanest of people, and… well, he wasn't one of them.

**OoOoO**

He was awoken, rather rudely he thought, by the ringing of the phone. He growled; didn't people know he was _tired_? A glance at the clock told him it was 4.30 in the morning, though.

Bad news. It had to be. With a definite sense of dread, he answered.

"Yeah?"

"_House!"_

"Wilson?"

"_Oh my God, you haven't heard?"_

"Heard _what_? I was sleeping!"

"_You haven't- House. They found him!"_

"Found- Wilson, will you try for once to make some fucking sense?"

"_Osama Bin Laden, House! He came running into a military base, screaming something about the blood of millions and threw himself under a jeep!"_

House was glad he hadn't been told in person. The victorious grin on his face would have been somewhat difficult to explain.

This was going to be _awesome_.

**OoOoO**

_Okay. I personally love this, so chances are I'm going to continue no matter how little interest is shown._

_And remember, I can't change what I don't know is wrong. If there's something you don't like, something you'd object to should it happen in the future, I would like to know._


	2. Chapter 2

_Summary: House finds the Death Note. He uses it for the benefit of the population, but who really knows what justice is? Future HW slash._

**OoOoO**

House barely slept that night, so caught up was he in planning exactly he was going to do with his newfound power. The power of life and death over _every single human being he could identify_. He'd taken on the possibly most infamous terrorist in the world and come out unscathed and completely unsuspected. But would it be just as easy to do it again?

He had to be careful, he knew that. Too far, and even he could get caught out. He could use this to change the world for the better, but if he got caught and the book ended up in the wrong hands…

But it was easy to remain undetected. He just had to pick some random causes of death, and be as patient as possible. And act like he didn't know about things before they happened. He had to keep track of the news. And he had to find new victims… God, that was an ugly word. New targets? It was less impersonal, but it made him feel like a hitman or something.

Anyway, he needed to find new… names and faces. Without making it obvious where he was finding them.

Goddamnit, why was this so difficult? How hard could it be to not get caught killing people without being anywhere near them?

As it neared nine o' clock, he considered calling in sick. Work was far too much effort, and although his leg was bothering him less than usual as he thought things over, it still seemed like altogether too much effort.

But he didn't want to arouse suspicion so soon after such a strange death.

Although for him, taking a day off simply because he couldn't be bothered to go in was pretty normal.

So what should he do?

Goddamnit, guilt made things so confusing. His laptop was beckoning, though, the thought of bringing justice to the many people who deserved it enticing him like nothing else had in so long. It was just so… _exciting._

But he didn't want to overdo it. No, he needed to slowly ease himself in. Work would stop him from doing that, distract him with patients, and clinic duty.

Five minutes later Cuddy was rolling her eyes at the message on her answering machine. House was dreadfully ill, and wouldn't be in for at least three days. _And_ it was a Wednesday.

OoOoO 

House was glad he lived in relative solitude, because it meant that nobody came bugging him when he spent a few days by himself. He'd had complete privacy for the last few days, and had in fact only left his apartment to purchase a few items he suspected he might need at some point. They were all hidden away, part of the plan he'd been formulating during every waking moment since finding out that the book actually worked.

When the knock at the door came, he was sitting on his couch, laptop on the coffee table, clenching and unclenching his hands because they were beginning to cramp from his spending too long at the computer. He jumped at the sound; so absorbed was he in his task that he had almost forgotten that the rest of the world existed. Sighing, and rolling his eyes because he was _perfectly fine_, for God's sake, and people should have learnt by now that he could take care of himself, he was careful to close all of his programs before he got to his feet a little unsteadily, popped a Vicodin from the bottle on his coffee table, stretched to the best of his ability, and crossed to the door.

It was a sign of just how distracted he'd been that he didn't quite understand Wilson's shocked expression until he was given a verbal explanation.

"House, you look awful! Have you been sleeping at all?"

"I'm _fine_. Little insomnia."

It was all House could do not to slam the door in Wilson's face. He hoped the small excuse would be enough to satisfy him, but apparently not as the other man saw fit to enter.

"Are you here to check up on me?" House asked, following Wilson out to the kitchen and watching him express intense annoyance at the contents of his cupboards and fridge.

"You… actually haven't bought anything since I was here, have you? What the hell have you been _eating?_"

House went to growl a response, but his stomach seemed to beat him to it. Suddenly, he realised how hungry he was and, thinking back, he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. Or slept. He'd done almost nothing except take his pills, drink coffee and make bathroom trips, eyes fixed almost permanently on his computer screen. He'd basically learnt to touch type simply from spending the entire last couple of days on his computer.

"I'm _fine_," he said again, though, although he could almost see the cogs working in Wilson's head. Why did he have to worry so much, could he see he was busy?

"House, what day is it?"

House thought back. His computer clock had never been right, so he only had internal calculations to go on, but he could make a pretty safe guess.

"Saturday."

"It's _Tuesday_!"

Wilson looked horrified, and, thinking about it, House could understand that slightly. He had been a little too absorbed, and if anything was suspicious, it was him losing himself in something enough to miss out three days of his life completely.

"Okay, you're eating something and then going to bed," Wilson's authoritative voice sparked anger momentarily in House's addled brain, before he realised exactly what it was he was doing. He was taking it too far, and he couldn't risk making Wilson, of all people, suspicious. Maybe he should tell him… make him part of it, in order to protect himself.

But what if Wilson betrayed him? He'd done it before! He was suspicious, but whereas before there had been only two options; telling him and hoping or leaving him be and risking, there was now another. Another he could be perfectly sure of.

No.

_No!_ What the hell was wrong with him? This was Wilson, for God's sake, he wasn't just going to… kill him. He couldn't. For a moment, House closed his eyes, trying to compose himself, and when he opened them the other man's evident concern made him want to cry. House, before he could stop himself, reached out for him, and before Wilson could stop him, he'd pulled the other man into a tight embrace.

He felt Wilson tense, could imagine his shocked and disturbed expression, but didn't release him. He just couldn't bring himself to let go of the only consistent thing he had in his increasingly insane life. Even if said consistent thing was very clearly terrified by this unusual display of affection, especially following House's behaviour of the previous few days.

"Can I trust you?"

Wilson jumped, and it was only the movement that triggered House's realisation that he'd actually spoken out loud. He hadn't meant to, he didn't think. He couldn't really remember.

His computer pinged, signifying a new e-mail, and House turned to look at the screen, fighting the urge to find his new names and continue in his task. He had to deal with Wilson first.

"House, what's going on?" Wilson pressed gently as House, for the fifth time in as many seconds, glanced at his computer before forcing his eyes away from it. It didn't take a genius to work out that something was very, very wrong. So, carefully, because he got the impression that a wrong move on his part could mean a rather unsavoury reaction from his sleep-deprived friend, he wrapped his arms around House's waist, holding him loosely, doing his best not to seem restricting in any way. Almost imperceptibly, House relaxed. More obviously, his eyes drifted closed, and he toppled sideways as his right leg gave out beneath him.

If they hadn't been standing next to the couch, Wilson would have just dropped him. He reacted fast enough to vaguely redirect the fall, but despite having barely eaten for almost a week, House was still fairly difficult to catch properly on such short notice. So he lay there, sprawled on the couch and having a much-needed rest while Wilson sighed, threw his hands up in exasperation, and ordered in some food after discarding some bacon that was mouldy anyway, and two tins of macaroni cheese that looked like they'd been there for years.

OoOoO 

He hadn't meant to look. Really he hadn't. But House's distracted behaviour pointed to his laptop… his _new _laptop, and he hadn't been able to resist. A slice of pizza in one hand, Wilson had moved the wireless mouse and found he didn't need a password to access anything.

Twenty minutes later, the same slice of pizza was in his hand, a growing puddle of tomato sauce on the coffee table directly below it and the cheese slowly creeping downwards in an attempt to join it. Wilson, however, was staring at the webpage before him, mouth open in shock as he struggled to comprehend just what the hell was going on. House's internet history was full of news sites, reference pages to mass murderers and rapists and paedophiles… and he'd written all of their names in the notepad he'd obviously kept beside him throughout, his handwriting becoming increasingly illegible with each entry as he detailed awful, excruciatingly imaginative deaths for each of them. Beside them all was a time, and a date. They were spread out, some as many as a year in the future, although Wilson noticed that, generally, the longer the wait, the more agonising the death.

Some were in the past, though, and Wilson scanned back through the sites to find certain coinciding details that made him feel suddenly nauseous. Had House joined some sort of sick _cult_? Some _gang_ intent on bringing justice to the world?

Trying to keep his breathing steady and his stomach under control, he flipped backwards through the pages to find the first entry. _Osama Bin… Holy shit._

He took a deep, calming breath, and covered his mouth with a hand as he felt bile rise in his throat. Something was _very, very wrong_ here. Squinting slightly, since the room was actually fairly dark, he read what was written on the inside of the front cover, scrawled white writing on the black background of the cover.

_Right_, he thought, unable to suppress the urge to roll his eyes at the stupidity of it all, _the book killed people. Now_ it made sense.

A new e-mail alert caught his attention, and he opened it after a slightly guilty sideways glance at the sleeping House. It was from a _DS Rubi Alexander, FBI_.

What the hell was House getting himself into? Unable to help himself, Wilson read the admittedly short but still incredibly confusing message.

_Greg,_

_Stop smoking or popping whatever you bought, and get a goddamn grip. Destroy that damn list, or you'll suffer because of some awful coincidence and then I'll have to find a new doctor. _

_You can't kill people with a book. And if you can, sell it on ebay or something, because __**every single person in this world**__ is more responsible than you are._

_Just in case, what's your doctor friend's phone number?_

_Also, can you recommend someone to take care of me medically?_

_Don't do anything stupid._

Rubi 

Wilson frowned. House was contacting this woman in the _FBI_ because of how much he believed in this book's powers? What was he _doing_? Idly, he read down the list again, found that one of the delusional predictions involved a suicidal satanic ritual around five minutes ago; a man from Nevada with multiple convictions for sexual assaults involving minors.

He shouldn't. Oh God, he shouldn't humour House _ever_, even if he _was_ sleeping. A quick glance, though, and curiosity got the better of him. He switched the TV onto a 24 hour news channel, began to surf the sites House had bookmarked.

Let his mouth fall open and began to hyperventilate as he saw the headline.

_Holy shit_.

The book _worked_. House had been asleep for a good half-hour, how could he have known what was going to happen?

This was sick. This was twisted. This was… _amazing_!

But… really, truly…

_Could_ he be trusted to keep this a secret?

**OoOoO**

_Gosh. How exciting! Death Note double act. _

_Am I rushing this? I'm just so eager to progress! Let me know if you think I'm going too fast. Or too slow. Or, y'know, if you're just here waiting for the gay sex._


	3. Chapter 3

_Summary: House finds the Death Note. He uses it for the benefit of the population, but who really knows what justice is? Future HW slash._

**OoOoO**

House awoke to a crick in his neck and the sight of Wilson perching on the coffee table opposite him, hands clasped as if in prayer as he sat, lost in thought, staring at the ceiling. Smiling slightly, since the sight made him feel strangely and inexplicably –to him, anyway- attached to the other man, he watched him for a moment, until the sensation of being watched made Wilson blink, and meet his eyes with a smile that was more of a resigned grimace. House was a little confused, until Wilson broke the silence that was beginning to take on tension.

"How many people have you killed?"

His voice was flat, emotionless, and for a moment House felt that almost overwhelming anger again; why wouldn't Wilson understand that he was doing _good_? But he suppressed it, sighed, and knew he had to explain. Knew he couldn't lose his temper because if Wilson couldn't trust him, he wouldn't have anybody. And as much as he wanted to get on with destroying as much evil as possible… he wasn't sure if he could do that without something keeping him sane.

"Hundred. Ish."

House watched as Wilson put his head in his hands, struggling to take in this new information. He must have had some idea about the quantity, since even from where he was sitting House could see the Death Note filled with his scrawlings, but hearing him say it just… sounded more real. He could relate. A hundred people? That… seemed like an awful lot. But how many lives had he saved by sacrificing those few?

"Okay," House sat up, needing to justify his actions to himself as much as Wilson.

But not immediately, since he was too busy trying to stop the room from spinning to formulate a coherent sentence. He cursed, dimly registered Wilson leaving the room and the sound of the microwave being programmed. _Food_. He remembered that. From back in the days when he'd felt that bit more human.

Wilson seemed to be helping, though. Anger and frustration were very human emotions. And… that tinge of gratefulness as he was handed a bowl of chicken soup, accompanied by that hint of… well he wasn't exactly sure what he felt as Wilson avoided meeting his eyes. Obviously he was struggling to deal. But House could listen after he finished his food. God, he'd forgotten how good it was to not feel his stomach attempting to digest itself.

In a way, he thought, he'd seen the pain as a sort of punishment for his actions, and had even consciously suppressed his appetite slightly, but he hadn't meant for it to go quite as far as it had.

He couldn't help but groan contentedly as hot food began to improve his mood, and noticed that, for the first time since he'd woken up, Wilson actually looked at him properly as he did so. _Weird_. He stretched as best he could without aggravating his suddenly cramping leg, and hissed in pain as he failed to do so. Rubbing it, he saw the flicker of concern in Wilson's expression, and knew that he still had a chance.

"Haven't you ever…" he began, through gritted teeth, and blinked in surprise as Wilson handed him one of his pills. He kept the bottle, but still it was better than nothing, House thought as he swallowed it and waited a moment for it to take effect before trying again.

"Haven't you ever… watched those news stories, and seen a guy who… shot sixteen innocent kids and then turned his gun on himself, and just thought he deserved so much worse than a painless death?"

He watched Wilson's expression carefully, saw doubt fighting with morality. Sighed and sat up, patting the sofa cushion beside him in invitation and grabbing the Death Note as Wilson did as he was bid. House scanned the list, searching for an example and pointed it out. Wilson read over his shoulder as he explained.

"Convicted for sexual assault and murder of four girls, all under the age of sixteen. He raped them, probably repeatedly. Starved them to death; can you _imagine_ that? That helplessness, the feeling that there's nothing you can do but wait to die painfully? And _don't_ just look at the floor sadly, actually _think_ about it. Innocent girls, alone and lost and confused. Crying for help and wondering why nobody comes. He deserved to know how that felt."

House paused, wanting to see if his message had sunk in, and suppressed a shiver at the cold tone in Wilson's voice when he spoke.

"You're not God, House. You can't just… judge people."

"So _that's_ the problem? The judging. Not the killing."

"Stop being pedantic."

"What, so you've never thought someone deserved more than a quick, painless death for causing suffering to countless others?" House found himself raising his voice as he argued a point he felt strongly about, but Wilson's voice remained calm and controlled. A little _too_ calm and controlled.

"I've thought it, yeah. The difference is that I don't _actually_ kill people. You're bringing yourself down to their level, House. You're losing your humanity."

"It's about the grand scheme of things, Wilson, not just me and you and our boring, everyday lives! I've been given this chance to make a difference. To change this world for the better. And I'm going to take it."

House's tone left no room for argument, and Wilson, recognising the stubbornness that had caused him so much anguish over the years, rolled his eyes, nodding resignedly. He didn't agree, but there was no point arguing. He just didn't have the energy.

"You gonna give me up?" House had to ask, had to know just how much his friend was willing to do for this idea he so clearly didn't agree with.

"They'd arrest _me_ for wasting police time. A Death Note? Come on…"

House wasn't sure exactly why, but Wilson's suddenly melancholy mood made him ache inside. He didn't want to do this against his best friend's will, not when he knew the only person whose opinion actually mattered to him was so blatantly opposed, but those people deserved exactly what they got. His suffering was nothing compared to the lives he'd save by ridding the world of so many of its psychopaths.

"I don't want to do this without you."

He'd said it before he even realised, and knew that his own expression mirrored Wilson's, which was showing confusion and surprise that, unwelcome emotions though they were usually, were so much better than the sadness.

"You're not… without me. You're just not _with_ me, that's all."

House, for a change, took no comfort in the fact that Wilson was clearly suffering as much as he was. And as their conversation progressed, it only seemed to make him feel worse. So he did what he usually did in awkward situations.

"I'm going to bed."

He walked away, seeing Wilson lean back on the couch, watching him as he left the room.

"House."

House stopped, turned to face Wilson who was staring pointedly at the wall.

"What?"

"I just…" Wilson sighed, "You're stronger than I am. You can deal with… the blood on your hands. I couldn't."

House knew what he was doing; he was admitting his weakness, justifying his actions because he knew House better than anyone and knew that he'd hurt him with his… rejection, based on basic morals though it was.

"Hold me down?" House was smiling slightly but deadly serious, and Wilson was similarly juxtaposed as he finally met the other man's eyes and nodded, his smile gaining sincerity as he knew he was forgiven for his momentary lapse.

"Always."

**OoOoO**

Wilson hardly slept on House's couch even when he was exhausted, and when he had so many confused thoughts fighting for dominance in his mind, it made things even more difficult. He'd awoken at around eight o' clock, cooked breakfast for House and left him some money for takeout because he knew he wouldn't eat otherwise. They'd agreed without even really having to speak that Wilson would be staying there for a while, and that House would be taking the rest of the week off work, at least, since Wilson had vouched for him and claimed he had the flu. Two weeks, at least, should satisfy the exaggerated urges that resulted from having a new experience, and Wilson hoped that after that, House could regain some semblance of his previous life.

At work, a cup of coffee constantly in hand and a derogatory comment about House ready on his lips for anybody who commented on how awful he looked, he went through the motions, spending most of his day in his office doing paperwork simply because it involved less movement, even if it was mind-numbingly boring.

He did have to check on a few of his long-term patients, though. Not that any of them were particularly short-term, but those who spent months of their life in the hospital were, he thought, deserving of a little extra attention.

"Morning, Sammi."

"G'morn, Doctor Wilson. How are you?"

"I'm tired, obviously. But good. And you?"

"I feel a lot better, actually. I kinda miss my hair."

"Don't we all?" Wilson ran a hand through his own hair even though he knew perfectly well it looked just as good as it had twenty years ago. Still, to Sammi, who was still _so young_, he probably seemed pretty old.

"Oh come on! You're what, thirty… two?"

"Thirty-eight. But thank you."

"It's alright."

Sammi smiled, still looking so strange without the long blonde hair she'd been so proud of prior to her treatment. But, as she had said herself, hair was a fat lot of use when you were dead. Wilson smiled back, unable to keep from responding to her optimism, but as his gaze dropped back to the chart he held, he noticed what she was reading.

"What's that?" he asked, nodding towards the book.

"Oh. Manga. It's Japanese, that's why it's backwards."

"Looks morbid."

"Oh, it is. It's about this guy, who's a genius, because they're all geniuses in Japan, and he finds a book where he can kill people if he writes their name in it. And the police and stuff are after him, but he's too clever, and he just gets drawn deeper and deeper into the whole thing. It's exciting."

She searched through the bag beside her bed, retrieved volume one and handed it to Wilson, who eyed it with curiosity.

"What the hell is that thing?" he had to ask as what looked like a crack addicted fetishist masquerading as a clown caught his eye.

"Oh, that's Ryuk. He's a shinigami, that's a guardian of death. He owns the Death Note. He looks mean, but he's cute really. He likes apples."

Wilson was unconvinced that he would ever consider this Ryuk cute, but shrugged it off, scanning the pages. A couple of the drawings unsettled him, the art style strangely realistic as depictions of the main character rather enjoying his role as Kira made him think of just how absorbed House was in his task already.

"Can I borrow this?" he asked, "I think… my friend would really like it."

"Sure. No rush to return them, though, I'm not going anywhere."

He smiled at her almost apologetically, wishing there was something he could do for this girl but knowing there was nothing except the medical course she was already on. Again he was reminded of House, taking his wish that bit further. He was saving people, and Wilson could appreciate the logic. But there were always going to be psychopaths. He still couldn't stop them. It was futile, as well as blasphemous. And illegal, of course.

He accepted volumes one to three with a smile and a promise that he'd bring Sammi a Happy Meal someday. By the end of the workday, he'd finished them all, and his thoughts were more confused than ever. And Cuddy was even more frustrated than she'd been on the previous day, when House had once more failed to turn up with no explanation other than a blatantly untrue excuse, and Wilson had been too distracted to do any work then, either.

Wilson hated how difficult it was to bring himself to care.

**OoOoO**

_Wilson isn't as easily convinced as I thought he was going to be. This isn't according to plan! Still, I've worked something out. I think. _


	4. Chapter 4

_Summary: House finds the Death Note. He uses it for the benefit of the population, but who really knows what justice is? Future HW slash._

**OoOoO**

When Wilson finished work for the day, he was incredibly glad to find House asleep. Not only was it the altogether healthier option for his sleep-deprived friend, it also meant he got a little time to himself, to suppress his more violent emotions and allow him to get his head a little straighter.

He didn't think he'd ever been more… conflicted. The new developments of the previous day were fighting against the overwhelming desire to protect his best friend from this new danger, but so far neither of them had won out in any significant way.

**The human whose name is written in this note shall die.**

The words just had a horrible resonance that he couldn't stop thinking about. He spent over an hour on House's couch, just sitting there, reading the rules over and over and wondering how such a thing could have come into existence. A God of death was mentioned, but while Wilson was convinced of the book's powers, since House had already shown him pretty clearly that it worked, the existence of these… _shinigami_, as they were called in the manga, challenged everything he'd ever believed in. He'd never been the most religious of people, but he had always thought there was something, a greater force out there. The idea of these Gods of death killing humans simply in order to extend their own lifespan, humans selected _at random_, put a spin on things he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to acknowledge.

He had to be careful, though, he knew, not to take too much of the manga to heart. It was fiction, after all, and although details about the note itself bore a certain resemblance, more were added as the story continued that Wilson didn't know they could rely on.

_They_, he'd thought. He was including himself in the whole thing, because of House and… because maybe he wanted to see that justice _was_ brought to those who so clearly deserved it. Unlike Kira, thought, who had thought that killing people by heart attacks was enough and thus drawn attention to himself, House was enjoying coming up with deaths that were as imaginative as possible. They weren't all broadcast in the news; most weren't local, and House worried about researching too much on his laptop because he knew perfectly well than an unhealthy interest from a single IP address would attract attention. But nobody seemed to have made a connection; House was using his medical knowledge to his advantage and many of the deaths had been blamed on worsening prison conditions.

Wilson switched the TV on, too much thinking beginning to make his head hurt, and the worry that somebody would notice something about the hundreds of criminals dropping dead in a week nagging at the back of his mind.

Nobody had, or course. The statistics were ridiculous, he knew, but the deaths were so common, so _accidental_, and so untraceable that of course nobody would think even for a moment that they were being killed. Nobody would _want_ to.

A 24-hour news channel mentioned a name Wilson recognised, and a quick flip through the Death Note told him why. The man had committed arson on 4 proven occasions and had killed 7 people, so House had made him kill himself by pouring a jug of water over his head and sticking an aerial he'd snapped off a radio into an electrical socket. The news, of course, spared many of the details and mentioned only that he'd committed suicide.

The programme was interrupted, though, by a breaking news broadcast. A paedophile who had unsuccessfully attempted to groom a thirteen year old student had taken said student's entire school class hostage, armed with an assault rifle.

Wilson cursed himself as he allowed his eyes to flick to the notebook that lay nest o him. He couldn't, killing was wrong… but those _children_. Twenty of them, their lives for that of this sick pervert.

And then they showed a photograph of the man, who had been arrested but not convicted for assault just a few months previously. Wilson looked into the cold, dead eyes of a killer, turned the notebook to a fresh page with shaking hands and wrote the name they'd mentioned earlier, unable to keep the man's face from his mind even if he'd wanted to. He couldn't bring himself to add more details, though, and simply left the name, shaking more and more as he waited for the 40 seconds to pass with no further updates.

And then the woman on the screen stared in surprise at the laptop on the desk beside her, and the screen switched once more to outside pictures of the school, surrounded by police who thankfully weren't sufficiently alert to shoot the twenty children who came running out of the building, all crying, some screaming and a few, Wilson noticed in horror, with torn clothes and bruises.

He watched no more, though, because the full extent of what he'd just done suddenly hit him, and he barely made it to the bathroom to retch violently in an action he almost savoured, a sort of purging. He was repenting, suffering for his mortal sin. He sat there for a while on the tiled floor, forehead resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl as he tried to even out his breathing and stop the tingling feeling in his fingers that he knew was a result of his beginning to have a panic attack.

When he returned to the living room, he avoided looking at he book, instead fixing his eyes on the television, watching the families reunited, crying, sobbing with emotion. They featured a relieved parent for a moment:

"Never thought I'd have McDonalds to thank for saving my baby's life."

Wilson couldn't help but roll his eyes. People were so fucking stupid.

Pretty soon, though, as the crowds began to dissipate, and he channel began to repeat the same segments over again, Wilson knew he couldn't procrastinate any longer. He picked up the book, looked at those two works on the otherwise blank page, written in his shaky but forcibly legible writing, and swallowed as his stomach attempted to rise again.

He'd killed someone. He was really involved in what House was doing and although he couldn't _see_ the blood on his still-shaking hands, he could feel it. And he had nobody to turn to except _House_, who would understand but probably not care. Still, he needed to do _something_.

"House," he was in the bedroom before he'd even really thought about it, poking House repeatedly and rather violently in the arm.

"What?"

House swatted his arm away, refusing to open his eyes because if he did that, he'd be acknowledging that he was really awake, and then he'd never get back to sleep. But Wilson couldn't say it. Couldn't say that he'd killed someone and so just kept poking, until House sat up, opened his eyes and glared at him, his expression telling Wilson that what he said had better be pretty damn important. Wordlessly, and without looking his friend in the eye, Wilson showed him the book. Showed him because saying it would acknowledge it and he wasn't sure he could do that just yet without hyperventilating.

And then Wilson knew he wasn't the only one whose life had completely changed because of that one object. He knew because House did something then that he couldn't remember ever seeing him do before. He hugged him. Although _hug_ didn't seem like quite the right word; House embraced him tightly, pulling him firmly against his chest as though he was trying to pull Wilson right into his skin. And Wilson knew why, because he felt it too. They'd both been so alone, dealing with their use and avoidance of the Death Note respectively. But suddenly they were united in their fear, of the world and of their own capabilities and the possibility of being unable to suppress the urge to misuse it.

And Wilson needed that, to feel there was somebody who understood and shared what he was going through and feeling, and the way he clung to the other man would have been embarrassing if House hadn't been doing basically the same thing. But it was comforting to know he was there. And he was going to be there in the future and maybe together they could get through it all. And they could make the world a better place.

**OoOoO**

_Yeah, the chapters are short. Thought I might as well give you something to tide you over until my inspiration comes back._


End file.
